Abra Cadaver
by Ink Spotz
Summary: When a magic act goes wrong, Sherlock Holmes and his faithful friend, Dr. Watson, are called in to investigate the crime. Norman, the magician, is being accused of murder after a young girl dies during one of his tricks. Will Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson figure out what is going on before the culprit vanishes?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"Ugh," grunted John Watson as he lugged the heavy grocery bags up the steps and into their apartment. He had no idea why Sherlock wanted so much soup, but he wasn't about to argue with him. He knew what the outcome would be if he tried to start a debate with him.

"Where do you want these bags?" asked Watson as he stumbled into the apartment.

There was no answer from Sherlock. Watson tried to peek around the bags in his hands and noticed that Sherlock was on his hands and knees in front of their fireplace. Curious as to what Sherlock was up to, Watson put the bags down on the kitchen table and walked over to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what is so interesting?" asked Watson.

Sherlock brought his head out of the fireplace momentarily. Soot and ash had colored parts of his face black, making his blue eyes seem wilery than usually. His suit that he had on was stained black, leaving smudges on the carpet.

"Sh, you'll scare it away," said Sherlock before turning back around to stick his head back in the fireplace.

This time, Sherlock reached an arm up into the fireplace, obviously trying to reach something.

"Sherlock..."

"I GOT IT!" exclaimed Sherlock suddenly as he quickly stood up.

Sherlock had something tiny, black, and fuzzy clutched in his hands. It was screeching, trying to get free. Watson got closer and realized that the screeching animal was a bat.

"Sherlock...that's a bat! Why is there a bat in the apartment?!"

Sherlock looked at the panic on Watson's face and gave him a quick smile before saying, "Never you mind. I'm taking care of it."

"You know Mrs. Hudson isn't going to be happy that you soiled another one of your outfits," said Watson as he watched Sherlock open the window and release the bat.

"Mrs. Hudson worries too much for her own good. I am a grown man. I think I know how to soil my clothes properly so that the stains will come out," said Sherlock as he locked the window after the bat had flown off.

Watson sighed and said, "That's not what I mea-"

"I see you got the soup that I asked for," said Sherlock as he walked past him and into the kitchen.

"Yes," said Watson. "Though I still don't know why..."

"I'm going to test all the different brands of soup to see which one has the best strength to fight off a cold," said Sherlock. "I'm betting it is not Soupy's. Their slogan, 'Try the best soup around' is a little off putting. Why on earth would someone need to persuade you to eat their soup if it was indeed the best? It suggests that it doesn't actually work in the manner that-"

"Sherlock," piped up Watson cutting him off, "Why on earth do you need to compare soups? Are you bored?"

"Ah, that's half of it Watson," said Sherlock. "But you have not noticed the other half. Mrs. Hudson's absence in the apartment today proves that she has fallen ill."

"Mrs. Hudson is ill?" asked Watson.

"Yes," said Sherlock, examining the cans of soup, "And I'll only feed her the one that provides her with the sustenance needed to get better."

"I see," said Watson. "How do you plan on doing this?"

Sherlock put the cans down for a moment and picked up a microscope that was set on a shelf underneath the table. He placed it on top of the table and sat down.

"I see," said Watson once again. "You're going to put the soup under a microscope?"

"I must analyze everything, seen and unseen. There's no telling what's really in these mixtures," said Sherlock.

Watson looked at Sherlock. He was obviously yearning for a case, but there hadn't been one in at least two weeks. Although he had to admit that he liked seeing the role reversal with Sherlock taking care of Mrs. Hudson, even though Sherlock had to disect everything.

Watson walked over to the laptops and saw the daily newspaper lying there. He picked it up and started to study the articles.

"Did you know that there is a magician in town this week Sherlock?" asked Watson. "He's suppose to take your imagination to new heights."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Your imagination. The unreal. Fraud."

"Sherlock, they are called magic _tricks_. No one thinks that they are actually real," said Watson.

"Interesting," mused Sherlock.

Watson turned to look at Sherlock and saw that he was intensely focused on whatever he was viewing under the microscope.

"Did you find something of interest?" asked Watson.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

He suddenly stood up from his seat and held a can of soup in his hands.

"Just as I deduced. Soupy's soup is not the best soup like they claim."

"Oh Sherlock," said Watson shaking his head.

* * *

"Are you ready son?" asked Norman as he straightened his bow tie in front of the mirror.

Grayson looked at his father's reflection in the mirror. In what little of his own reflection he could see in the mirror, Grayson saw that he looked like his father, apart from the fact that his father's brown hair held traces of gray. He however still had his father's stature, face, and bright blue eyes.

"Yes," said Grayson with a slight smile. "I am."

Having a father who was a magician sure kept Grayson entertained.

Norman turned around and smiled as he reached forward and gave his son a hug.

"I'm so pleased," said Norman. "Shall we go on with the show then?"

"Yes," said Grayson. "Lets go on with the show."

Norman and Grayson left the dressing room and started to make their way through the back stage area. As they walked along, Grayson looked at all the people that were walking around. All of the backstage crew were decked out in black t-shirts and blue jeans. Grayson looked at how buff some of these people looked. He wondered why backstage crew members always looked so muscular then came to the conclusion that it must be because they lift a lot of heavy boxes.

As they rounded the corner where the curtain had been drawn across the darkened stage, Grayson could hear the murmurs of the crowd as they were filing into the auditorium. He turned to see that his father was getting some last minute adjustments from the crew, the top hat that they had just put on him was slightly sideways on his head.

"This is it my boy," said Norman as he gripped Grayson by the shoulders and shook him. "It's showtime!"

The curtain started to be pulled back to let the spotlights flood onto the stage. Norman walked out from the backstage area and started to wave and bow at the crowd that started applauding. Grayson could see the smiles on the crowd and the smile on his father's face. The smiling was infectious for Grayson smiled himself. Yes. Let the show begin.

* * *

Fifteen minutes into the show, Norman bowed during a round of applause that he had just received for his last magic trick. Two backstage crew members quickly ran onto the stage and were pushing the small table with the magic hat on it offstage. Grayson stood in the center of the stage next to a large rectangular box. It was now time for his father's most famous trick.

"Now," said Norman as the applause started to die down. "I will need a volunteer from the audience in order to perform my next trick."

A good amount of the crowd started to raise their hands. Norman turned to look at Grayson and said, "Son, how about you choose the lucky volunteer tonight?"

Grayson's eyes scanned the crowd and he suddenly caught sight of a pretty red head girl. A warm feeling came over him and he had to shake it away before his father noticed.

"How about you good lady?" asked Grayson as he pointed right at her, trying to hide a blush from rising to his cheeks.

The young lady rose from her seats, her dark blue dress swaying from side to side as she made her way onto the stage.

"And what might your name be young lady?" asked Norman.

"Johanna," she said with a smile that lit up her whole face, making her green eyes sparkle.

"Grayson, will you please escort Johanna over to the box?" asked Norman.

"Most certainly," said Grayson as he walked over to Johanna and she looped her arm through his.

Grayson led her over to the box and opened it up. She got in the box and before Grayson backed up and shut the box on her, he leaned forward and whispered next to her ear, "Make sure you use the exit at the bottom of the box in order to vanish."

In response, Johanna leaned forward and kissed Grayson's cheek.

"Whatever you say," she said with a slight smile as she drew away from him.

Grayson smiled back at her and shut the box door on her, encasing her in the box.

"Now," bellowed out Norman to the audience. "I will make Johanna disappear from this very box."

Grayson watched as Norman walked over to the box, his magic wand at the ready.

"Now when I count to three, Johanna will no longer occupy this box. One...two...three!"

When he said three, Norman tapped the box with his magic wand. After a momentary pause, Grayson opened the door to the box to reveal that the interior was empty. The audience was awed at the fact that Johanna had disappeared.

Grayson re-closed the box door and Norman turned to address the audience once more.

"Now when I count to three again, Johanna will reappear," said Norman. "One...two...three!"

Norman tapped the box and Grayson reached forward to open the box door. As soon as he did, something toppled out of the box and landed on the stage floor. The audience members screeched. Norman and Grayson looked at what had just fallen out of the box. Norman's face grew as white as a sheet while Grayson felt like he was going to throw up.

Lying on the floor in a small pool of blood was Johanna, dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Here you go Mrs. Hudson," said Watson as Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her apartment. Watson immediately felt bad at seeing how awful she looked. She looked really ill. Her face was white with barely any traces of color. Her ususal joyful eyes were clouded by the effects of illness.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as Watson handed her a container filled to the brim with piping hot soup.

"It's from Sherlock and I," said Watson, "Sherlock wanted me to send along his best regards."

"Well tell Sherlock that I said that 'thank you'," she said. "He is always so thoughtful."

Watson smiled back, loving seeing Mrs. Hudson happy despite her illness.

Mrs. Hudson shut her apartment door and Watson walked back up the stairs to see what Sherlock was up to. As Watson re-entered the apartment, he saw that Sherlock was standing with his gun facing the wall. It was aimed right for the smiley face that was painted there. Watson watched as Sherlock slowly started to pull back on the trigger.

"Sherlock don't! Mrs. Hudson might want to get some rest. She is sick, remember?"

Sherlock turned to look at Watson and rolled his eyes as he said, "Yes I remember Watson. That's why I have a silencer on the gun."

Sherlock nodded toward the gun and that's when Watson saw the silencer that had been attached to it.

"I thought for someone that was in the army, you would have recognized that I had put a silencer on it immediately. Then again, your first thought wasn't about what the gun looked like, it was about Mrs. Hudson which suggests that your mind was consumed by worry instead of logic so therefore, I forgive you for not noticing."

Sherlock pulled back on the trigger and sent a bullet through the wall. Watson laughed and said, "Thank you for forgiving me for being such a worrier."

Sherlock turned to give Watson a smile before going back to shooting at the wall.

Suddenly the phone started to ring.

"I'll get it," said Watson, seeing that Sherlock wasn't about to move from his position to answer the phone.

"Hello?" he asked as he put the phone up to his ear.

"Watson, it's Lestrade," said the voice on the other end of the line. "We need Sherlock and you to get down to the station immediately."

"Something happen?" asked Watson.

"Lets just say, it's a mystery that has baffled all of my staff," said Lestrade with a sigh. "So can you guys come down and assess the situation?"

Watson looked up at Sherlock who was still firing shots at the wall.

"Yes," said Watson. "We'll be there."

Watson hung up the phone and said, "That was Lestrade."

"Another case I suppose?" said Sherlock as he threw the now empty gun aside and flopped down into a chair.

"Yes," said Watson. "Lestrade wants us to get to the station immediately."

"Immediately," mused Sherlock. "That has a tone of finality, which suggests that it's urgent. I suppose we'll have to go then. I'm happy to finally have a case, and now that Mrs. Hudson seems settled, at least I'm ready to go."

Watson smiled. Sherlock thought about Mrs. Hudson's well being before a case. Watson loved what a big heart his best friend Sherlock hid underneath his intelligence.

* * *

When Sherlock and Watson arrived at the station, Lestrade walked up to them.

"I'm glad you arrived," said Lestrade. "Honestly I'm not sure what to do."

"What happened?" asked Watson as they walked toward Lestrade's office.

"That 'Norman and Son' magic act that is in town went awry-"

"Yes," said Sherlock as he scanned the office with his eyes. He noticed two blue chairs outside Lestrade's office where a man and woman sat grieving. Through the pleixglass window that surrounded Lestrade's office Sherlock could also see two people seated in front of his desk. One was a man who was slouched over while the other was a teenage boy, nervously tapping his foot against the ground. "A death occurred during the magic act. Judging by the way that man and woman are crying outside your office, I assume that it was a young child of theirs. The parents themselves appear to be in their mid-thirties judging by their clothes and the way that their hands are still interlocked, suggests that they haven't been married for more than twenty years. Couples that are married more than that don't usually hold hands, at least in this century."

Lestrade paused in his walk. Sherlock and Watson stopped walking too.

"How do you put up with this guy?" Lestrade asked Watson.

Watson released a chuckle and so did Sherlock. They found it amusing that Lestrade was still in awe of Sherlock's deductions.

When they arrived in Lestrade's office, Norman and the boy turned to face them.

"Who are they?" asked Norman looking at them wearily.

"An interested third party," said Lestrade briskly.

Lestrade turned to shut his office door and then turned back to the two people in his office.

"I know who you are!" exclaimed the boy in excitement. "Aren't you Sherlock Holmes?"

The boy was pointing right at Sherlock.

"Yes," said Sherlock nodding his head. "That would be me."

"Why aren't you wearing your hat? You always wear your hat on the blog," stated the boy.

"I what?" said Sherlock as he turned to glare at Watson. "I thought I told you to take that picture off your blog."

Watson shrugged his shoulders and with a small smile said, "But the people love it."

"Boys," said Lestrade stepping in before Sherlock could say something else to Watson. "Lets save this childish bickering for later, shall we?"

"It wasn't childish bickering. It was a discussion over a creative difference," mumbled Sherlock under his breath.

"Can you tell me something about myself?" asked the boy, still looking at Sherlock. "I want to see if you're as good as you seem to be."

_Sherlock mental note: For a boy that has just witnessed a death right in front of him, he seems completely unphased._

"Lets see," said Sherlock as he crossed his arms. "Your faded blue jeans and your red t-shirt suggests that you are a teenager not yet grown into your full manhood. This is also evident in the fact that you have faded marks from zits on your face, like every other hormonal teenager. You look just like your father. Your father loves you immensely hence the reason he calls his magic act 'Norman and Son'. Since you are a boy and his only son, you were no doubt named by your father." Sherlock looked at Norman and scanned him up and down. "Your father looks like an old fashioned man. No doubt he'd name his child some kind of old fashioned name. The gray that is creeping into his hair, but that he's trying to mask suggests that he is worried about old age creeping up on him. He worries alot because of all the wrinkles that are evident on his face and he's only in his mid to late forties at best. Being the concerned father that he is, he worried for you when you were born, no doubt knowing that you'd have an unstable childhood since you had to move from place to place. No doubt he also worried about what you would be like when you hit your teenage years. Teenage years can be some of the hardest for parents to deal with. Your name would have to be Grayson if I was to make an educated guess after accessing all the facts."

"Whoa," said Grayson staring at him in awe. "That was amazing!"

"Alright, alright, enough showing off," said Lestrade rolling his eyes. "It's time that we got down to business."

"You don't think you're guilty, but yet you still feel guilty, don't you?" asked Sherlock as he watched Norman grip his hands tightly together, turning his knuckles white. "Why would you feel guilty if you did nothing wrong?"

"I..." Norman's mouth dried up.

"Sherlock, take it easy on the man," said Lestrade.

"This is Sherlock taking it easy," said Watson with a smile.

"My father feels like it's his fault somehow because he's in charge of our magic act," spoke up Grayson after seeing that his father lost the ability to speak.

Sherlock's gaze turned from Grayson's father to him. He looked at the passive look that was pasted on Grayson's face.

"Did you know the victim?" asked Sherlock.

"No," said Grayson quickly. "I'd never seen her before."

_Sherlock mental note: He answered the question too quickly. _

"You sure you didn't know her?" asked Sherlock. "You sure you didn't meet her on one of those chatrooms that are on the internet? I mean a boy of your age must feel lonely traveling around so much and crave some kind of attention from a girl."

"Look," said Grayson staring at Sherlock. "If you are insinuating that I had something to do with Scarlet's death, I didn't."

"Ah," said Sherlock with a smile. "Scarlet is her name. Was she beautiful?"

Grayson cast his gaze away from Sherlock and looked down at the floor, trying to hide a blush from rising to his face.

"Sherlock how about we go look at the body now before you insinuate any further?" suggested Watson.

Watson walked over to Sherlock and gripping him by the shoulder, lead him out of Lestrade's office. They walked toward the exit and as soon as they got outside the station, Watson wheeled around to face Sherlock.

"You think that that kid knows something about Scarlet's death don't you?" asked Watson.

"I believe that we need to look into the matter further but yes, right now Grayson is a very probable suspect to me."

"What about his father?" asked Watson.

"The way that he was wringing his hands the entire time we were in Lestrade's office and the way that he was making direct eye contact with me every time I talked to him, suggests that he is innocent. Dishonest people won't look you straight in the eye when talking to you."

Sherlock waved down a cab and the two of them got into the cab, driving off to the morgue to check out the body and get more answers.

* * *

"Scarlet?" said Lestrade after Sherlock and Watson had left. "I thought the young girl's name was Johanna?"

Grayson looked up at Lestrade as he said, "I didn't remember her actual name so I called her Scarlet because of her red hair."

"I see," said Lestrade. "Well, I must say I'm sorry about Sherlock. Sometimes he can get..."

Grayson tuned out Lestrade's voice as he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.

"May I use the restroom?" piped up Grayson suddenly.

Lestrade and his father both turned to look at him before Lestrade said, "Yes you may. Go out the office and take the hallway to your right. It'll be the third door on your left."

"Thank you," said Grayson as he rose from his seat.

He exited Lestrade's office and made his way down the hallway. As soon as he arrived at the bathroom, he pushed the door open and locked it behind him. With shaky hands, he leaned up against the locked bathroom door as he took out his cell phone.

_You have (1) new message_

Grayson could feel his fingers get all sweaty from the tension that was building up inside him as he clicked open the message in order to view the content.

_Scarlet came out to play._

_By your magic was she totally deceived._

_She took a part in the magic,_

_Now she can no longer breathe._

_Poor Scarlet, ensared by someone Gray like you._

_It's time we narrowed this game from four down to us two._

Underneath the message was a picture of Johanna's dead body lying in a pool of blood on the stage. Grayson's stomach flipped. The killer had been at his show tonight. Who was he? Grayson slid his back down the door until he was seated on the bathroom floor. He tucked his knees up under his chin. Maybe he should have told Sherlock so he could get some help. Just as he thought that, his phone buzzed again.

Grayson opened the message and read it.

_If you tell anyone about who I really am,_

_If you're even clever enough to figure it out._

_Or if you tell anyone about our conversations,_

_You'll have me to worry about._

After Grayson read that, he had to fight back the urge to cry. He had to keep this a secret, but how could he stop this mad person from killing anymore people? He would just have to hope that Sherlock could figure out what was going on before it was too late.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"This is the body," said Molly Hooper as she revealed the corpse.

Sherlock bent his head slightly over the body, inclining it to the side for a minute. He appeared deep in thought. Watson had no idea what to do with himself so he satisfied his longing to do something by holding his hands behind his back. Sherlock suddenly noticed that the dark blue of her dress was darker near her stomach.

"She was stabbed," said Molly, "She died from her wounds within moments."

"Yes," mused Sherlock out loud. "She was indeed stabbed and with a small knife by the looks of it. That would make the most sense as the killer would want an easy weapon to hide."

"The killer must still have the knife though," stated Watson, "because the police don't have it."

Sherlock turned to look at Watson, studying him for a moment before saying, "The police don't have the murder weapon because they don't know where to look."

"Do you mean..."

"Yes," said Sherlock cutting Watson off. "The weapon is still at the scene of the crime."

"But how do you know for sure?" asked Watson. "The killer could very well have it on them."

"Not this killer," said Sherlock. "Notice the stab wound. It's one wound, clean and thorough. This killer knows exactly how to kill and how to perform it in as quick a manner as possible. We also know that, since the killer isn't Norman, it's someone framing Norman therefore all the killings would have to occur at the performances. Noting the fact that there are three other performances of 'Norman and Son' in town at the same location proves that the killer stashed the weapon somewhere in the performance hall in order not to get caught with it. Also having the weapon planted there would create further suspicion upon Norman if it was found."

Sherlock turned his back on the corpse and was about to breeze out the door, but not before yelling behind his shoulder, "Watson, get us tickets to that magic show tonight. It's time I performed a little magic of my own."

* * *

"Everything will be alright tonight. You can perform the show and not have to worry about the killer. My team and I have this place covered," assured Lestrade as he leaned up against the doorway.

Norman and Grayson were getting prepared for their performance. Norman was still as pale as a sheet, while Grayson was still shaken about the text messages he had received. Neither of them were ready to perform tonight. Lestrade had talked them into it. He wanted to see if the killer would make a reappearance tonight. In show biz, the show must go on after all.

"Alright," said Norman as he tightened the bow tie around his neck. "As long as you're sure that you are prepared for the killer."

"I am," said Lestrade. "There will be no need to panic during tonight's show. Just go out there and perform your magic. We've got the rest covered."

Grayson felt the pocket of his tuxedo, feeling the weight of the cell phone there. Who would die at tonight's show? Would Lestrade really be able to stop this mad person? Grayson was sure hoping so.

* * *

Sherlock and Watson walked in and looked at their ticket stubs to see where their seats were. The hall was already filled with a bunch of fancily clad men and women sitting around tables and sharing beverages. Some teenagers milled around too, trying to blend in with the adults as if they were one of them. Tobacco smoke scented the air, clouding it with a thin layer of gray smoke.

Sherlock walked past the tables that were at the back and towards the row of seats that were in front of the stage. He looked at the numbers that were on the sides of the chairs and finally found their seats. The two of them sat down, Sherlock taking the aisle seat.

As they sat there, Sherlock started to bounce his leg up and down, tapping his foot to some unheard beat.

"Sherlock," said Watson noticing Sherlock's fidgeting and trying to get him to settle. "Sherlock."

Watson put his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulders. It immediately brought him out of his head and his leg stopped bouncing up and down. Sherlock looked at Watson strangely and asked, "Yes, what is it?"

"You were fidgeting," said Watson. "I know that you are anxious, but I think you should at least try to act as if you weren't."

"I can't help but fidget Watson. The game is on and I'm eager to watch the killer play their hand," said Sherlock.

Watson grinned and rolled his eyes, knowing that Sherlock loved the thrill of the chase.

"Can you at least explain something to me?" asked Watson.

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock, staring straight at the red curtain that was drawn across the stage. "What is it?"

"How do you think Grayson is involved?" asked Watson. "Do you think that he is actually the killer?"

Sherlock turned to look at Watson.

"Grayson is suspicious. He knows something that he is refusing to tell anyone. I want to know what that information is," said Sherlock. "Until I know that information, I will continue to find him suspicious."

"What about the whole chatroom thing?" asked Watson. "How did you even come up with that?"

"Grayson obviously travels around a lot, only staying in places for a brief period of time. He must feel lonely, therefore he'd very likely join a chatroom. At least then he'd be able to associate with some kind of human being," said Sherlock.

"I see," said Watson, silence coming to linger between them.

A couple minutes later, people started to file to their seats, slowly filling up the seats in the hall. Immediately Sherlock stood up.

"Sherlock," said Watson looking up at him, "What are you doing? The show is about to start any minute!"

"I'm going to go do some investigating," said Sherlock. "You stay here and keep our seats. I'll be back."

"But Sherlock..."

Watson didn't get his whole sentence out before Sherlock disappeared down the aisle and out the door. Watson slouched in his seat and looked at the curtain. Hopefully Sherlock wasn't going to get himself into any trouble.

* * *

"Ready Grayson?" asked Norman as he turned to look at his son.

Grayson looked at his father and saw the look of fear in his eyes. He immediately had to look away. He couldn't bare to see that look there.

"Yes," said Grayson, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat.

"Alright then," said Norman with a forced smile. "Lets do this. Lestrade is watching out for us. He'll be certain to catch suspicious activity."

"Okay," said Grayson, as the curtain started to get drawn back across the stage, "Lets do this then."

Norman quickly hugged his son by the shoulders before stepping out into the light that was now flooding onto the stage. The applause filled the area and Grayson took a deep breath before following his father out onto the stage.

* * *

Sherlock made his way through the backstage area, where the crew gave him sideways glances. They all knew that he wasn't suppose to be back there, but they also knew him and that, if they told him the rules, he wouldn't listen.

Sherlock made his way toward the stage area. He peeked out around the curtains and saw Norman and Grayson going through the motions of their acts. He backed up away from the curtains and turned around. That's when he found what he was looking for. There was a trap door in the floor paneling which lead to the space underneath the stage, where the storage was and where the partakers in the disappearing act disappeared to.

He bent down and opened the trap door to peer into the darkness below him. He dug out a small flashlight that he had in his coat and began to descend the little ladder that led into the space.

Once down in the space below the stage, Sherlock swept the area with his flashlight. He wanted to be able to see all the possible places that a killer could hide a weapon from view. He could hear murmurs above his head as the magic act continued. He heard scraping across the stage above him and figured that the disappearing act was about to happen soon. Perfect. Maybe he'd even catch the killer at work.

Sherlock continued to sweep his flashlight across the beams on the bottom of the stage. He noticed the square trap door in the center of the stage where the person partaking in the disappearing act was soon to drop down through. As Sherlock swept his flashlight beam near the trap door, he noticed a beam that seemed slightly off to the side. Reaching up, Sherlock felt between the crack in the beam with his hand and touched the handle of a knife.

"Ah ha," said Sherlock.

He dropped the flashlight by his feet so he'd be able to pick it up again easily once he was done with his work. He started to feel around between the beam again, trying to grip the knife. He could hear the clicking of heels above his head. Someone had just entered the vanishing box. It wouldn't be too long now. But if Sherlock had the weapon, there would be nothing to worry about hopefully.

Sherlock continued to tug and finally managed to get the knife free. In the catches of light coming from his flashlight, he could see that the blade was decorated with dried blood.

"I found it!" exclaimed Sherlock, holding the knife high above his head in victory.

Suddenly, the trap door in the stage fell open and a woman dropped through the hole. She turned to see Sherlock with the knife above his head and let out a horrifying scream.


End file.
